tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12514313065100322462024-02-20T16:52:54.607-08:00Brain Drops Keep FallingThe musings of a mom who's just trying to raise a family and keep her sanity.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-68485005282496575972011-05-16T09:15:00.001-07:002011-05-16T09:15:11.739-07:00Lying Fallow<p>At her blog, <a href="http://beginneradultballerina.blogspot.com/">The Writings of an Infertile Ballerina</a>, Jen Nelson shares about the painful truth of dealing with her infertility while working as a nurse who cares for post-natal women and their babies. In reading her story, it brought me back so vividly to my own pain as a woman trying desperately to conceive.</p> <p>By all accounts I was “lucky” since I already had a child when I began to experience infertility. Sitting in the waiting room at the reproductive endocrinologist’s office I was embarrassed by the fact that I went there with a toddler. I felt greedy and overprivileged to be there wanting for more than I already had, when those other women were struggling to have just one baby.</p> <p>It was the only place in the world where I didn’t feel inadequate. In that waiting room, with my son in my arms, I was the most complete I could be. Compared to those other women, I wasn’t as broken, I wasn’t as deficient, I wasn’t as pathetic. Then I would leave and set out about my days. Days where I lost friends because I couldn’t bring myself to be around a group of pregnant women or the day when I lost my best friend because I couldn’t understand the pain of her pregnancy and she couldn’t understand my not understanding. Days where I felt alone, lonely and hollow.</p> <p>After all, as I told Jen this morning, it’s the one thing our bodies were made to do: have babies. It doesn’t take intelligence or sophistication or even skill, it’s something that happens to women all over the world every day by accident, and I couldn’t make it happen with a team of doctors. What kind of loser was I anyway?</p> <p>And then of course, there are all the hyper-fertile women who love to tell you how they got pregnant when their husband walked in the room. “He looked at me and I was pregnant! hahahahahah” or “I don’t know how it happened!” (really? I could buy you a book about it if you need one!) or other award-winning things an infertile woman does not want to hear. But you hear them every day. And each one cuts like a scythe, deep and jagged, leaving scars on your heart and tears in your eyes.</p> <p>One day, I was talking to the nurse at the RE’s office and she said to me, “If I could tell you the exact date you were going to have another baby would that make you feel better?” </p> <p> “Yes,” I said, “But you can’t!”</p> <p>“But I can tell you that you WILL have another baby one day. We’re going to keep at it until we get it right.”</p> <p>“But what if that doesn’t happen. You can’t guarantee that!”</p> <p>“I just know it. I know it.”</p> <p>Turns out she was right. I got my daughter, the miracle, after almost 2 years of treatment for secondary infertility. I suffered through hundreds of shots, ultrasounds, blood tests and diagnostic tests and I lived like a science experiment for years, but I got my baby. That nurse was right.</p> <p>Every time I meet a woman who is going through it I feel so conflicted about reaching out. I am so painfully aware of my blessings and also of the fact that my blessings are someone else’s painful reminders of a struggle they live with every day. Then again, who but someone who has been there can truly say, “I know how you feel” and really know? My truth is that even though I got my miracle I still feel like that barren woman who hungered and ached for a baby more than anything in the world. When I meet a similarly suffering soul, my wounds re-open just enough for the pain to become real again and I am overcome with a need to help someone else heal. As if by helping her, my pain develops meaning and morphs from anguish into some fairy tale fable in which everyone lives happily ever after.</p> <p>Tonight, as I kissed my babies goodnight I sat for a moment with that strange mix of gratitude, humility and sadness. Just as I once sat and wondered why God would withhold my dream, I now sit and wonder why the gift was given to me and why other women continue to suffer this deprivation. Like an amputee feels pain in a long gone limb, the ache of the longing persists even now. </p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-39193004808353795332011-05-15T10:07:00.001-07:002011-05-15T10:16:01.052-07:00Call of DutyUsually I write about being a mom. I know I’ve written about my husband, but I don’t usually write specifically about being a wife. In the interests of nothing being sacred, I’m about to overshare. Tune out now if TMI is TM for you.<br />
<br />
This morning after dropping the kids at religious school, my husband triumphantly entered the bedroom and declared, “We’re going to have sex now!” For various reasons, one of which being his recent vasectomy (nothing is sacred), and his abject fear of an accidental third child being conceived prior to said procedure (too many people told him the, “I was just about to get a vasectomy when…” story), it’s been a while. I won’t say how long, but let’s just say, long enough. TMI yet?<br />
<br />
For various other reasons, among them, the fact that I have been up since about 4 am and haven’t showered, and have spent the past 2 weeks like a shut-in with my daughter who was recovering from her own surgery, I was not exactly raring to go. He looked like a sad puppy. I felt gross, but then, how can a gal turn down a guy who looks at her with such longing when she looks like such a mess? Every woman dreams of being so desired, right? Why is it that sometimes it feels like an obligation? We even remember hearing it called the “wifely duty.” Yuck. Who wants to do THAT??<br />
<br />
I know I shouldn’t complain. I should be thrilled that the me I see and the me he sees are so different. I should be delighted that he doesn’t care what I smell like, or look like, or whether I’ve brushed my teeth or my hair, but it’s not always that easy. So, I try to push past it, to be the me he sees and not the me I feel like. To let his eyes be my mirror. Even though it’s difficult sometimes, it’s important to remember that I’m not just a mom, I’m a woman too. <br />
<br />
In the midst of our tryst, he gently kissed my forehead and whispered, “I love you.” In a moment’s time I went from feeling like a dishtowel that needed washing to feeling like a princess. Not a bad way to start the day.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-50781919805204543802011-05-15T07:58:00.001-07:002011-05-15T09:23:18.862-07:00Kicking and Screaming (and a little jumping and flailing)I have been known to call myself a “soccer mom” before, and have been referred to as one by others, but I never really understood or accepted the full impact of the phrase until recently.<br />
<br />
I erroneously thought that my moniker was derived from having a kid who plays soccer and simultaneously owning a minivan in which I transport multiple children to and from practices and games. What I have come to realize is that this is only a small part of what makes me a Soccer Mom. And while it was a label I wore with disdain a short time ago, it is now something with which I am increasingly more comfortable and, dare I say it, proud.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, while watching my son’s team battle to a hard fought tie on the field, I realized: I love to watch these kids play. Sure, there are moments when it’s frustrating to watch, but there are even more when it is completely exhilarating. Best of all are the looks on their faces when a goal is scored. It doesn’t matter who scores, they all rejoice as if they themselves had scored. This is the power of a team sport.<br />
<br />
The beauty of watching your kid play is not necessarily in watching them experience the glory of the victory, as one might expect. For me, the real beauty in the “beautiful game” is watching how kids, my kid in particular, handle the tough times. The times when the ref misses the call, the times when the other team scores a freak goal and takes the game, the times when they just run their hearts out and still get pounded into the dirt with a lopsided defeat. In those moments I see the biggest victory of all. It’s the fact that my son can walk off the field with a smile, knowing he left everything he had on the field and that he stood by his team. <br />
<br />
So yes, I’m a soccer mom. Not because I drive a minivan, not because I wash uniforms or clean cuts and scrapes sustained on the filed, but because my heart is in the game. Because when I watch those boys on the field, I feel like I am there with them, and I experience their joy and their pain with them. Sure, I jump and yell and cheer, I have to. I never understood someone who could sit and watch a game (any game) without having full-body involvement. But at the end of the day, for me, it really is about how they play the game. Winning is just a nice bonus!Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-23479003518157588242011-05-08T12:27:00.001-07:002011-05-08T12:27:41.183-07:00Sign of the Times<p>Yesterday I made the single most disturbing impulse purchase I’ve ever made. While walking with purpose to the toy aisle to get some puzzles for my daughter, something caught my eye. I was compelled to reach over and grab it off the shelf. It was a jar of pickled beets. Sliced, pickled beets. Something happened in that moment as I placed the jar in my cart. I came face to face with the fact that I am now middle aged. Ouch. Still smarts.</p> <p>In my 20’s I would impulsively grab a bottle of nail polish, or a new lipstick, or some new shade of eye shadow or hair care product that I felt would change my life. In my 30’s it was baby and toddler toys that I scooped up impulsively. There was a time when my home was clogged with toys. Yesterday, however, it was pickled beets. They are tasty, they have fiber, anthocyanin and they make your poop turn pink, which is irresistible, so why is it nagging at me? Because it’s a sign that I’ve truly entered a new phase of my life. I thought I was ready, but maybe not.</p> <p>When I turned 40, about 6 months ago, I didn’t feel like the woman in the Depends commercial, or the woman in the Miralax or Metamucil commercials, I felt like the spry, bouncy young thing in the Nair commercial (even though my legs might not be ready-for-short-shorts). The pickled beets, to me, represent a shift in my priorities and in general, getting older. I suppose that’s ultimately better than living like a 20 year old and pretending that I’m not really a grown-up, but it just feels like giving in to something. And I despise giving in.</p> <p>So, I opened the beets today, after leaving them in the fridge last night. They were chilled to perfection and just as delicious as I imagined they would be. Even with the bitter aftertaste of middle age.</p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-73519753358112388182011-05-07T16:04:00.001-07:002011-05-15T15:37:50.129-07:00In-Laws and OutlawsMy husband and I have been together for 14 and a half years. During that time, I have had a rollercoaster ride of a relationship with his parents. My in-law relationship is one that is built on sand and doomed to instability. After all, their only investment in me (and mine in them) is the connection we share through my husband and our children. The term “father-in-law” or “mother-in-law” or “daughter” or “son-in-law” is deceptive. It implies an intimacy or investment that may not always exist. I have always called my MIL, “Ma” or “Mom”. It’s easier that way. I have a friend who has been told to call her MIL “Mrs. X.” I find that cold and impersonal, but maybe more true to the dynamic of the relationship.<br />
<br />
My IL’s have made a point over the years to make pronouncements about how I am not a DIL, but the daughter “they never had.” I will admit to having fallen into somewhat believing this from time to time. Due to some recent events I have become vividly aware that my position in their lives is that I am the woman their son married (and I was told years ago that none of their DIL’s are worthy of their sons in their estimation), and who gave birth to their grandchildren. That’s it. <br />
<br />
Watching my own nuclear family growing up, I always felt like I wanted my IL relationship to mimic that of my father and my maternal grandmother. I would have dared anyone to sit in our home through a family dinner or holiday celebration and guess whose mother she was. My father always called her “Mommy” and any cards they exchanged always read “Son” or “Mother”. None of that in-law nonsense, they loved each other and that was it. It lulled me into a false sense of security.<br />
<br />
It shouldn’t bother me that these people judge me, but it does. It irks me that they see snippets of my life with my husband and children and feel entitled draw conclusions from them. There have been many times when I felt like my home was an ant farm, open to their prying eyes and then subject to their opinions and judgments. Lots of judgments. And not just about me, but about my fellow DIL’s. They routinely absolve their sons of any involvement in anything negative and cast the blame on those whores of Babylon to whom they are married.<br />
<br />
The problem in the in-law relationship comes from the fact that we are forced into an artificial relationship with a third party by virtue of loving someone. The IL’s aren’t always people we like, admire or with whom we would choose to be associated were it not for this tenuous bond. The trick in navigating the waters of this complex relationship is in not creating waves that disrupt the other parties (spouses and children) who sail in those waters more easily. Of course it helps if the IL’s themselves aren’t rocking the boat.<br />
<br />
My one wish is that I am the kind of mother-in-law to my children’s spouses that I had always hoped to have myself. It’s hard to imagine now that there will come a time in their lives when I will need to be less involved, but I know it will. While I expect that their spouses will and should be the first person they turn to for support, encouragement and advice, I desperately hope I will be the second (or third behind their father). I know there will be times that I want to give my two cents’ worth in situations and I pray that I have the good sense not to infringe. But most of all, I hope that both my kids end up with spouses who love, adore and cherish them as much as their parents do one another. <br />
<br />
Oh, and that I never get referred as the “Monster-in-law.”Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-62611461141934594032011-05-06T06:50:00.001-07:002011-05-06T06:50:22.798-07:00Meltdown<p>Okay. It’s been a week to remember. That’s about the best thing I can say. I think the quality of this week is best illustrated by the fact that I just suffered a class one meltdown over a shoebox. Yes, a cardboard box that shoes come in. Well, this box held a pair of pleather boots, but you get the concept.</p> <p>Here’s the deal: my daughter had surgery this week (tonsils and adenoids), nothing serious, but surgery still. I’ve been in my house since Tuesday midday with no immediate prospects for leaving. While I have had visitors, I have not had a true interaction with the outside world. In the midst of this, I have been helping remotely with the Mother’s Day plant sale at my son’s school (which I volunteered to co-chair BEFORE I scheduled my daughter’s surgery), I have been waiting on my daughter, reminding her every 10 minutes to take a drink, watching her fever as it ebbs and flows, doing puzzles, art projects and trying to keep the house up. I’m losing on most fronts.</p> <p>Last night I carefully labeled a shoe box on all four sides with my son’s name and his grade and teacher’s name. I set the box on the counter and reminded him no less than 10 times this morning that he needed to take the box so he could bring home the plants he buys today. I was distracted as he left and so when he ran out without his shoebox, I didn’t notice. And then about 8 minutes after he left I saw it there. On the counter. I blurted, “OH E!” (that’s what I call him) I ran out the door, knowing full well that he was gone. I picked up the phone and called my neighbor. I know she’s volunteering today and thought she could bring the box with her for my son. “I’m not going up there until 2 pm, I think that might be late for him,” “Yes, he’s going at 1:30. Hmmm, I guess I could drive up to the school and drop it off.” “Oh Lisa, that’s silly, they always have LOTS of extra boxes, they’ll give him one!” “Yeah, but I wrote his name on this one.” Really? Really?? Did I really and truly have SO much invested in this stupid shoebox? “Lisa, don’t drag the little one out, I'm going out later, I’ll pick it up and bring it by the school for you.” “You will? Thank you so so so much!!” I am trying to imagine my friend and neighbor looking at her phone wondering how badly her friend and neighbor had cracked.</p> <p>After this very emotional exchange over a shoebox (A SHOEBOX!!!) I got my daily call from the surgeon’s office to check on my daughter’s progress. I was told that beginning sometime this weekend (I’ll know when because my daughter will become really cranky…WINNING!) I will need to wake up periodically during the night to make my daughter drink. I am starting to feel like one of the detainees at Gitmo. I’m waiting for the waterboarding to start. Sleep deprivation part deux. </p> <p>I know it’s all going to be OK because my friend, who understands my overwhelming obsession with the shoebox, picked it up a short time ago and delivered it to school for me. Whew.</p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-61596179814789360642011-05-03T19:40:00.000-07:002011-05-03T16:40:05.257-07:00Sorry, I Don’t Do…My husband is a saint. Okay, maybe not a saint, but he is many things that I am not and he completes me in some very specific ways. How do I love him? Let me count the ways…<br />
I have a temper. I am rash, emotional and impulsive. Pick your chin up off the floor, it’s shocking, I know. For the past 14 yrs my husband has been the water to my fire, his job (and he does it with aplomb) is to diffuse me and render me incapable of exploding. There are munitions personnel in Iraq who have likely had easier jobs with IED’s than he has had with me over the years. He is skilled at making it easy for me to back down. He nibbles my chin, he playfully calls me “Wackadoo” (only he can do this…don’t <strong><u>you</u></strong> try it), he finds a way to make me laugh and he shakes my sillies out. Sorry, I don’t do calm.<br />
I’m a bit of a slob. I take my shoes off around the house. In our mudroom there is a pile of shoes he refers to as our “back up security system.” He calls it that because anyone trying to break in through that part of the house would break their neck on the pile of shoes there. I kick my shoes off in the kitchen, the family room, under tables – anywhere really. He comes home at night, follows the trail of shoes and collects them. He finds them a home and our life goes on as scheduled. Sorry, I don’t do neat.<br />
I am nauseated by many things. Vomit occupies a top spot on the list. We have 4 cats and 2 children, so vomit is a way of life in our house. From hairballs to stomach viruses to simple acts of overindulgence, it is a near daily occurrence in our home to find vomit on the floor. The sight of it activates my gag reflex. If a cat throws up, I cover it with a paper towel and when he gets home, he dispatches the offensive pile. If a child vomits, it’s worse. I have called him home from work to clean up a floor full of regurgitation. In the past month or so, each child has graced us with a “technicolor yawn” strewn about the floors of our home. He faithfully goes about the task of cleaning and sanitizing and never complains. Sorry, I don’t do vomit.<br />
I get wrapped up in the drama of it all. I regularly trick myself into believing that the sky really is falling. Far too often I am the Princess and the Pea. I believe the grain of sand in my shoe is a boulder. He reminds me of what’s really important and of how incredibly lucky we are to have each other and two beautiful, healthy children. He’s like a bungee cord that suddenly snaps me back from the free fall. Sorry, I don’t do perspective.<br />
Not to make it seem as if he doesn’t have shortcomings himself. Life is an intricate balance of give and take. There is that which he doesn’t do, and I fill in those gaps for him. It’s the dance we do, and even on the days when it’s more like a mosh pit than a ballroom, we still manage just fine.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-1543437018935885072011-04-30T07:02:00.000-07:002011-04-30T07:02:43.436-07:00OK…Where’s the Camera?When I was in high school, my friends and I, in an effort to be ironic and deep, posited, “Are we all just Barbies in someone else’s dream house?” In 1998 the movie “<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120382/">The Truman Show</a>” followed a man who had lived his entire life unknowingly on the set of a reality TV show of which he was the star. Some days I stop and really consider the fact that it’s entirely possible I am living my own version of “The Truman Show”.<br />
<br />
This week would have been a humdinger of an episode. This week we had “a very special episode” on Wednesday when I lived through the nightmarish drama of a radiology field trip through my left breast. A finding on my mammogram turned into a 2 hour odyssey through the mammography and ultrasound suites at the hospital. In the end, the report reads, “probably OK, but we’ll see you in 6 mos to be sure.” Could be better, could be worse. I left the hospital and got into my car. It took a few minutes for me to be able to grasp the steering wheel since my arms felt like overcooked spaghetti. I felt like I had spent the morning lifting weights. <br />
<br />
I made it home, but had to turn around and run out to purchase the makings of a basket to present to my son’s music teacher for teacher appreciation week. While at Target I saw no fewer than half a dozen people I know. I’m sure I looked like what the cat dragged in after the morning I had. I tried having a conversation with one friend but I was interrupted by a phone call from a woman with whom I have been discussing a business proposal. Unfazed by the fact that my daughter is having surgery on Tuesday, she pushed for me to come meet with her on Monday. “Time is of the essence,” she squirted into my ear. So, there in the middle of Target, I discussed my possible career moves, my mammography disaster and my daughter’s impending medical procedures. Attention Target Shoppers…is there anyone who didn’t hear EVERYTHING I just said? Please report to housewares for complete details on the freakfest that is my life!<br />
<br />
After Target, I went to go retrieve my daughter from her playdate. On the way there, while on the phone with a friend, I missed a call from an unfamiliar number. Upon listening to the voicemail, I found that the surgical scheduler of the doctor with whom I had originally scheduled my daughter’s surgery, the same doctor whose office had rudely called me and told me that the accommodation they had originally agreed to make for me was no longer going to be made (long story) after which I had told them that I would find a new doctor (deep breath), had called me and chewed me out for cancelling the doctor’s insurance authorization which, she acknowledged, was my right, but that it would have been nice for me to call and let them know! WH-WHA-WHAT????? I called her back in an indignant furor and let her know that it was HER office that called ME and accused me of trying to circumvent the doctor (which I didn’t do), and then hung up on me when I said I was no longer interested in having him perform the surgery. I concluded the conversation in the foyer of my daughter’s friend’s house in front of the mother who I don’t know very well and who I am sure now thinks I am certifiably insane. Great.<br />
<br />
I took my daughter to pick up my son and his friend. We arrived a little ahead of schedule and so we sat in the car waiting to drive around and retrieve the boys. A friend was walking by and so I caught her attention and tried to catch up. My daughter started yelling at me, kicking my seat and generally acting out. I was fully mortified by her behavior and apologized to my friend over my daughter’s cries of, “STOP TALKING!!!!!”<br />
Upon returning home my overtired 5 yr old lost her mind, lashing out at my son’s friend for laughing at her. When I turned to him and asked, in an exasperated tone, “did you laugh at her?” the boy broke down in tears on my kitchen table. He lifted his head and wheezed, “I can’t help it…I laugh at everyone!!!” I now had a 5 yr old who was exhibiting possible signs of hydrophobia and an 9 yr old boy in the throes of a personal crisis that my daughter had incited. I went into my daughter’s room to calm her down. She sat on her bed sobbing and heaving and screamed, “YOU HATE ME!!” at me. I said, “Why would you say that??” She screeched, “Because you made me sit in a hot car and that made me mad and now I have to say mean things to you because you made my day worser!” I did my level best to diffuse her. Eventually I made progress. I brought her back to the kitchen to make peace with my son’s friend. It took some time, but we got there.<br />
<br />
After the peace accords, it was time to drive to practice. I dropped the boys at the field and then started home to begin decompressing. About a mile from my house rain started hitting my windshield. Not dainty, misty rain. It was big, chunky, fat rain. You know the kind of rain I mean…it only takes 4-5 drops to soak your whole body from head to toe. I turned the car around and went back to the field. The sun came out. It was like the sun was giving me the finger. It was saying, “Eff you and your need to lay down and try to forget the hell of your morning!” And then I swear, I heard the sun laugh at me.<br />
<br />
Eventually, my husband made it home with dinner and flowers in hand (awww). The kids were fed and then he took them out so I could have some quiet time. I pulled out my book and got into bed. I turned on my bedside lamp and started reading. I think I read about 5 paragraphs and the next thing I knew the garage door was opening. I looked at the clock, 8:44. My room (thanks to the lamp) was bright, it seemed like daylight. In my fog I started to panic. I heard the kids’ voices. OMIGOD! We overslept!! I jumped up. The kids came into the room. I blurted, “We overslept! We need to get moving!!” My son burst into laughter. “What’s so funny?” I cranked, feeling groggy and stressed.<br />
“Mom, it’s nighttime!”<br />
I <strong><em>must</em></strong> be on TV, right?Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-38126516749105481052011-04-29T14:28:00.001-07:002011-04-29T14:28:00.229-07:00My Walkabout Heart<p>“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” <a href="http://<a href="http://einstein/quotes/elizabeth_stone/">Elizabeth Stone quotes</a>">Elizabeth Stone Quotes</a></p> <p> </p> <p>I recently celebrated the 10th anniversary of my quitting smoking for real. In acknowledging this occasion with my husband, I accidentally outed myself for the months (ok, year and a half) of closet puffing I had done after I told him I quit. I confessed that my true quit date was the day I found out I was pregnant with our son. That one action, the cessation of a decade long bad habit in which I indulged, was a watershed moment. It marked the end of a life lived for me and my own needs and desires, and ushered in the start of a life lived (in great part) for the needs and desires of my children.</p> <p>The first time I ever saw the Elizabeth Stone quote, it made sense, but I didn’t really have a context for it. My son has a free spirit. He likes to explore, he loves the outdoors and playing sports. Sometimes I see him fall to the ground during a soccer game and it’s like a dagger in my side. I watch him writhe in pain after a hit and it leaves me breathless. I fight every natural urge to run to him, sitting there, feeling his pain and anxiously waiting for him to stand up again. It’s the same way when I see him outside playing with his friends. I want to tell him, “stay with me where it’s safe” but I resist the urge to saddle him with my own fears. It is truly like watching my heart walk away from me and go peddling down the street. It’s like that feeling I have when I dream I’m falling. I want to stop it, but I’m completely out of control. Please let me wake up before I hit the ground.</p> <p>Every time I see a parent on TV who has lost a child to some horrific predator, a piece of me crumbles. I can’t help but look at them and wonder what I would do. How I would cope. Could I even begin to cope? How does one go on when one’s heart has been torn apart? I look at my children and soak in their wonderfulness, the innocence that they have; the pureness of their souls. I try to imagine the darkness in someone who would exploit that. It seems no matter what we do, it is impossible to protect them completely from all the bad in the world. Our hearts are truly exposed, walking around in the open, vulnerable to injury with no adequate protection from danger. If harm comes to them, it will mean the end of our lives as we know them. How do we protect them and not scare them? Give them their independence and yet shelter them from the storms? </p> <p>There are so many ways in which being a mom has changed me for the better, but it has also changed me for the worse. I have become fearful and suspicious. I see danger in every situation. From the coffee table to the mall, there are perils everywhere. At times I feel like Sleeping Beauty’s parents who ran through the kingdom seeking out spindles and destroying them. I, too, want to obliterate every possible threat to my babies’ safety. Nowadays it takes more than a cabinet lock and an outlet cover to ensure their safety, and as they continue to grow, the efforts required on my part will become greater. Every day for the rest of my life, my heart will wander around outside of my body and I will never again know the bliss of only having to worry about myself.</p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-54692389662021281562011-04-26T06:56:00.001-07:002011-04-26T06:56:25.071-07:00My Beautiful Mosaics<p>In reading an entry on <a href="http://www.blogher.com/frame.php?url=http://www.sanemoms.com/journal/2011/4/22/finishing-up-the-week.html">sanemoms.com</a> this morning, I sat for a moment with my future sadness. I have always known that my children would leave someday, fly the coop, so to speak, and go out to make their way in the world. What I hadn’t taken enough time to digest is that their absence in my home will leave a gaping wound on my heart. In her entry, Sane Mom suggests that, beginning as part of our bodies, our children physically take pieces of us with them. I know that the same is true on a metaphysical level.</p> <p>My children are the most beautiful mosaics. They are composed of pieces of me, my husband, the experiences we share as a family, the happy, sad, and frustrating moments, the skinned knees, the bruised feelings, the triumphs and disappointments. From the day each of them entered the world, I have devoted myself to making sure that their mosaics were bright, colorful and full of texture. I have tried to craft a life for them that will propel them forward into their independence with confidence and joy. For nearly 10 years, my world has revolved around these precious people in whom my heart resides.</p> <p>Looking forward to a day when they take their leave of my home, my stomach flutters. The knot rises in my throat and the tears collect in my eyes as I imagine a day when my home no longer echoes with the sound of someone yelling, “MOM!” and my lap is eerily empty of a warm and snuggling child. I never expected that motherhood would be easy, but I don’t think I adequately considered the fact that someday I would have to let my babies go. I have some years to adjust to that inevitability, but somehow I don’t think I’ll ever really like the idea. </p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-87467135923848415042011-04-25T16:52:00.001-07:002011-04-25T16:52:39.318-07:00What is Normal?<p>Our family consists of a home with two parents of the opposite sex, 2 children of the opposite sex, 4 cats (3 girls and 1 boy), 3 goldfish (of undetermined gender), 2 cars, 3 working TV’s, one video game console (wii), 4 working laptops (one just barely and another holding on by a thread), 2 smartphones and 3 cordless phones, 2 of which are almost always missing in action. </p> <p>My house is “lived in” which is a euphemism for not always neat and tidy. I try, but don’t always succeed in keeping it neat. The above-mentioned children and cats generally contribute to the lived-in-ness of the home by leaving toys, clothes and sporting equipment around (kids) and knocking things off shelves and spreading them around (cats). It is normal in my house for a forgotten glass of water to be knocked over thus creating a puddle in which an unsuspecting pedestrian can step and even possibly slide across the floor. It is also normal in my house for laundry to be washed twice because it has been left too long in the dryer and has developed recalcitrant creases.</p> <p>It is normal in our house to be constantly on the move between the hours of 3:00 PM and 7 PM most days of the week, sometimes later depending on the day. It is also normal in my house for my children to eat dinner seated at a table with both of their parents, and to consume a relatively well-balanced home-cooked meal at least 5 nights a week. </p> <p>Normal noises in my house include a brother and sister arguing with one another, computer keys clacking, a television droning, a telephone ringing, cats screeching and meowing, a fish tank filter humming, baseboards creaking (fall/winter) or A/C cycling on and off (spring/summer), door alarms beeping as children run in and out of the house, and finally the sound of water filling bath tubs at the end of our busy days.</p> <p>On a “normal” night in our home there are bedtime stories, hugs, kisses, and “good dream medicine” <a href="http://www.rescueremedy.com/">(Rescue Remedy)</a>, and two parents who just about make it into bed before being completely overtaken by the exhaustion of being so normal.</p> <p>Thanks to <a href="http://www.socialmoms.com/main/search/search?q=blog+prompt">Social Moms</a> for inspiring this piece…</p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-51530681461161706922011-04-25T16:19:00.001-07:002011-04-25T16:59:37.306-07:00Faulty DesignIt seems to me that there are serious flaws in the way that God (or who or whatever you think created mankind) designed women. Actually, it's the way that mothers, in particular, are designed. I suppose for the average woman who has no offspring, current design works fine. Women who have chosen to procreate, however, are missing some crucial design elements.<br />
First problem is the fact that the hemispheres of our brains do not operate independently from one another. I translate this design flaw to my children as “2 ears, 1 brain.” Now, if each ear had a hemisphere of the brain devoted solely to receiving input from that ear, being a mom would be much easier. At least for women with 2 children or less. This of course is because husbands also don’t realize the design flaw and insist on being heard at times the ears are listening to someone else (usually on the phone).<br />
The second major issue I find is with the appendages. Only having two hands is truly a disadvantage. There are times when we need to pour a drink, apply a band aid, core and slice an apple, hold a baby and make dinner simultaneously. How can this be done with only 2 arms and 2 hands? Although, having extra arms and hands can only take you so far. Even with the extra helping hands, our range of motion is limited by only having 1 body upon which to mount said appendages. Solution? Cloning. <br />
Last serious design flaw? Eyes only in the front. It’s been said for years, but truly, we moms need eyes in the back of our heads. How else can we be expected to properly monitor the goings on in our homes? The fact that we don’t automatically sprout 2 eyes in the back of our heads the moment we go into labor is unfortunate. Parenting would be so much easier if we could have a 360 view of our world, to watch the children, sure, but also to assess danger as it approaches. Clairvoyance would be nice, but I’m not going to be a pig about it.<br />
Despite the fact that having any or all of the above mentioned accoutrements would make my life easier, I am forced to recognize the fact that mothers with far fewer resources than those at my disposal have managed to do the job, and do it well, without them. I guess I can too.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-21153032262631294602011-04-20T17:49:00.001-07:002011-04-20T17:49:58.162-07:00Just, wow<p>One day, when I was just a girl, my mom gave me a book. I can’t remember if it was <u>Frecklejuice</u>, <u>Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing</u>, <u>Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great</u>, or <u>Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself</u>, but it was a <a href="http://www.judyblume.com">Judy Blume</a> book. There were so many of them I have lost track. I can vividly remember being in 5th grade and reading <u>Forever</u> and feeling like I was doing something so “wrong” reading that book about a girl losing her virginity.</p> <p>If John Hughes filmed the truth of my young life, then Judy Blume wrote my truth. In the pages of her novels were the moments of my life, played out by other girls in other worlds. They lived my struggles, they knew my pain and my triumphs.</p> <p>About 10 yrs ago I moved to Scotch Plains, NJ. Only later did I find out that this little hamlet in Central NJ was once the home of Judy Blume. Serendipity. The other day, I discovered Ms. Blume on twitter. Immediately I began to follow her and then (wait for it) I tweeted to her. SHE ANSWERED ME! I had what, in this technologically distorted world, could be considered a conversation with Judy Blume. I didn’t gush at her about the fact that she shaped my childhood perception of myself, I didn’t ooze to her that reading all of her amazing novels is probably why I aspire to write myself, I did none of that. I asked her what elementary school her kids went to. What was I thinking???</p> <p>But, Judy Blume “talked” to me!! Just, wow.</p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-79498451334357735902011-04-20T17:29:00.001-07:002011-04-20T17:29:19.694-07:00How Do You Know When It’s Worth It?<p>Usually, when it comes to food, I weigh the deliciousness factor against the caloric transgression and make an informed decision about whether I want to “go there.” Sadly, my standards are low and I generally go with “yes.” So, when it comes to a relationship, how do you make the judgment call? It can’t be about calories or taste (unless it’s a REALLY interesting relationship). I guess it comes down to pro’s and con’s and return on emotional investment.</p> <p>Funny thing about social networking is that it has gotten me back in touch with a lot of people I had lost touch with earlier in my life. Some are people with whom I share a lot in common. Old high school friends with whom I empathize over the challenges of child rearing, or people who I look to for advice. Some of them are people who I find myself amused by but with whom I have no real deep connection. In the past week I have found myself wondering if there isn’t a good reason why some people drift out of our lives and if it’s always a good thing that they pop back up again.</p> <p>I have been struggling to figure out how to sort through the people with whom I have re-connected on facebook and other social networking sites, and how to assimilate them more appropriately into my real life, if at all. My friends, the real ones, the ones who really know me, know that I value the relationships in my life. I will do anything for a friend and in return, I have friends who do the same for me. They may be people I play with on facebook to escape the harsh realities of a bad economy, oil spills, tsunamis and nuclear disasters, but they are also people in whom I confide when I am sad, with whom I celebrate when I am happy and for whom I genuinely care. The greatest truth about my friendships is that there are few boundaries. The people with whom I share my true self are people who do not have many boundaries for themselves. My feeling on sharing is that it’s a two-way street and I don’t enjoy feeling like there are so many limits on intimacy that we never delve beneath the surface. I believe friendship and the sharing that goes on within the confines of a friendship are limitless.</p> <p>“I’m rubber, you’re glue” Remember that schoolyard taunt? Well, for me, in the case of true friendship, “I’m rubber, you’re rubber.” Like the two mirrors placed opposite each other creating an endless series of images reflected back at each other, I feel like true friends synergize each other and propel each other forward. And that’s how you know it’s worth it.</p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-89917705336653414742011-04-16T08:38:00.001-07:002011-04-16T08:38:20.876-07:00It’s a Lot Like Life<p>This morning, in frigid temperatures and with winds gusting through my carefully chosen layers, I watched my 5 year old daughter play soccer. As my fingers lost sensation and my core temperature dropped, I was able to maintain focus on one thing: my daughter is a tough customer.</p> <p>My experience with this child is that, while she has no problem defying me or engaging in physical horseplay with her older brother, she is sometimes loathe to engage assertively with her peers. The child I watched on the soccer field this morning exhibited no lack of assertiveness at all. Rather, she seemed quite comfortable engaging other children, going after the ball and running it up the field. So, she’s 5, why do I care? </p> <p>Soccer is a lot like life. Go ahead, snicker. I know what you think. I’m a helicopter soccer mom who wants to live vicariously through my kids’ athletic accomplishments. You couldn’t be more wrong. What I mean is that, in soccer, as in life, if you want the ball, you have to take it. If <strong>you</strong> don’t take it, someone else will. There is always another player waiting to touch the ball. Sometimes it’s someone from your team who will eventually pass the ball back to you, and sometimes it’s someone from the opposing team who will exploit the opportunity and score against you. Watching my little girl challenge bigger boys was so reassuring. Just knowing that she refuses to allow herself to be intimidated by their gender or size is a comfort. It gives me hope that she might always be the kind of person who can stand up for herself.</p> <p>She starts kindergarten next year. She’ll be straddling the cozy comfort of preschool and the harsh realities of elementary school. I’ve found myself doing a fair bit of hand wringing in anticipation of the transition. She still feels like my baby and I have some anxiety at the thought of sending her out into the world. I have to say though, watching her navigate the soccer field gave me a whole new outlook today. This child does OK for herself and when push comes to shove (literally), she can find a way to get what she wants (needs). </p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-66047805722689211262011-04-13T10:36:00.001-07:002011-04-13T10:38:44.459-07:00My First Power Suit<p>Today I was brought back to 5th grade again. In response to a writing prompt issued at <a href="http://www.SocialMoms.com">www.SocialMoms.com</a>, to recall my favorite childhood outfit, my mind quickly shot back to what I affectionately refer to as my very first power suit.</p> <p>In the strictest sense, it wasn’t a suit, but it was an ensemble that made me feel like I could conquer the world. And in 5th grade, that means a LOT! I treasured it and wore it not nearly as often as I should have, feeling like I could wear the power out of it and it would cease to be so special. Allow me to describe said outfit:</p> <p>The top was a lavender angora sweater. The sweater had buttercup sleeves that poofed just a little bit and made my shoulders look a tiny bit broader. The neckline boasted 3 pearl buttons which fastened by way of simple white elastic loops. I could open or close as many or as few as I desired on a given day. The sweater fit like I was born in it. My small, burgeoning breasts were perfect under the soft angora and I felt like Jane Russell in that sweater. It was the first time I noticed my own curves and I loved them. I looked like a Playmate of the Year with my perfect 32B’s displayed in that sweater.</p> <p>The bottom was a pair of purple culottes, which were about 2 perfectly exact shades darker than the lavender sweater. They were corduroy and fitted just below my knees. They showcased everything that was right about my body, which at the time was actually EVERYTHING. The outfit was rounded out by a pair of knee-hi lavender socks and a pair of ballet flats.</p> <p>In that outfit I could have managed the Camp David Accords, I could have handled nuclear disarmament, I could have disarmed a charming 7th grade boy (and maybe I did). In short, I could do anything. There are days now when I wish for that lavender angora sweater. I would do just about anything to have its present day counterpart. But then again, I’m older and I don’t know if there is any article of clothing I could put on that would bring me back to the days when I knew everything, was afraid of nothing and had it all in front of me.</p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-82256283632687615592011-04-12T09:10:00.000-07:002011-04-12T09:10:22.657-07:00UnpluggedI recently had a new experience. For 10 days I unplugged. I locked my cell phone in a hotel safe, left my laptop languishing on my kitchen countertop and I enjoyed 10 days with my family without worrying about tweets or status updates or text messages or voicemails or emails. Two amazing things happened during this time: 1) I survived 2) I lived in the moment, enjoying things as they happened without worrying about who knew about it or what they thought of it. Put differently, I found out that when a tree falls in the woods and no one posts it on facebook or twitter, it still makes a noise.<br />
About 2 weeks ago, maybe more (I’ve lost track), I deactivated my facebook account. (pause for dramatic gasp) The action spurred several concerned inquiries from friends and family members. People wondered where I had gone, was everything OK, WHY did I DO it?? If I needed any further proof that it was a genius move on my part, the week and a half I just spent with my family was all the confirmation I needed. Not only that, BUT…I also just banned television from my house during the week. (insert jaw drop here) For 2 days we’ve gotten ready for school without the Today show telling us about serial killers and nuclear disasters. We listened to some classic rock today, AC/DC, Joan Jett and The Who ushered my kids out the door to school today. There was no rushing, no yelling, no chaos. Could it be that I have found the key to a calmer life for my family?<br />
I’m not one to blame technology for the ills of society. I wholeheartedly subscribe to the theory that user error is almost always the problem. In this case, what I have to offer up, and the reason I deactivated my facebook account in the first place, is that I think all this electronic communication is contributing to a breakdown in our society. I think that not hearing people’s voices, not using our own voices and limiting our emotional contact with others to the use of emoticons has dulled our senses. I want to be back in the real world. I feel like Neo in The Matrix. I unplugged from the machine and I don’t want to go back to being tethered that way again. It feels revolutionary to say it out loud. I half expect some kind of retribution from the Tech Gods for the blasphemy I have uttered.<br />
Come and get me. <br />
(you can’t see this but I’m striking the Carrie Ann Moss ass-kicking pose)Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-70691795598925019192011-03-22T15:42:00.001-07:002011-03-22T15:42:19.101-07:00Hard for Me to Say<p>Chicago’s opinion to the contrary, for me it’s not “Sorry” it’s “Goodbye.” I guess the first time I realized how difficult “goodbye” could be was during my summers at sleep-away camp. That last night of camp and the following morning, camp was like the final episode of M*A*S*H, people running around, teary eyed, hugging and bidding each other farewell. It felt almost unbearable to say goodbye to those people who I loved so much.</p> <p>The first person I remember losing was my great-grandmother. I wasn’t very close to her and her funeral was on my 11th birthday. It upset me more that my party was cancelled than it did that I lost my great-grandma. It’s selfish, but I was 11. Then I lost my grea-grandfather. Funny thing about that, the loss didn’t sink in for years. Even now, I feel sad that he never met my husband, that he never knew my kids. It’s a goodbye that has lasted for 27 years.</p> <p>Last year I started saying two goodbyes. I started saying goodbye to my cat, Simon, who was 11 years old at the time. I realized he was slowing down, losing weight, getting older. I came to grips (kind of) with the fact that he was going to die. Every day I looked at him with a longing. How could I keep him alive? How could I never have to say goodbye to him? And then the news that my grandmother, who is my best friend in this world, aside from my husband, had a defective heart valve that was worsening. Due to two thoracic surgeries and compromised lung function from years of smoking, she is unable to undergo surgery for the valve. She’s dying. A little bit every day. I still talk to her at least three times a week, she still checks up on my whereabouts like a mother hen, she is still the person I want to tell my good things and bad things to first. And one day, probably not too long from now she won’t be here.</p> <p>In January 2011, after a month-long battle with acute congestive heart failure, Simon succumbed. My son found him dead on my bedroom floor. The grief was and is overwhelming. His ashes sit in my family room, with a picture of him sleeping. I like to think he’s still here with us, but I think I know better. He’s gone. Such a difficult goodbye. My beloved pet, who thought I was his mother, who licked my nose and snuggled in my hair, slept by my side for 12 and a half years, gone in an instant. No matter what preparation I thought I had done for the moment, I was ill prepared for the emptiness in my heart that day.</p> <p>Some might think it strange, and even I acknowledge, how bizarre it is that I look at my relationship with my grandmother and my cat in the same light. The parallel is in the unconditional nature of their love for me, mine for them and in their way of being there for me in a way that not many people (I know Simon was a cat) have been. When I lost my first pregnancy, Simon laid by my side while I cried for a week. His purr was like a massage, his rough tongue scratching over my nose and cheeks at every turn shored me up, just a little. My grandmother has been there for me in so many ways I can’t even count. It is impossible for me to imagine the landscape of my life without her. She is a touchstone for me. We talk about everything, joking (sometimes inappropriately, which I love) and we are there for each other. I have tried to prepare myself for that phone call. It’s going to come sooner than later and I know it. When I try to picture how it will be without her, I think it must be what the pre-Columbus explorers thought about falling off the edge of the world. I can’t see over the edge to see what’s there and it scares me. The lesson I learned with Simon is that regardless of how hard I try to prepare myself, to soak up whatever time with her that I can, one day she will be gone and I’ll be without her. No matter how much time I have with her, it will never be enough because I’m greedy and I never want to lose her. It’s a goodbye that will be with me for the rest of my life.</p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-14563439141989649912011-03-18T14:47:00.000-07:002011-03-20T17:21:39.083-07:00My Name is Lisa and I’m Judgmental<blockquote></blockquote><sup><span style="font-size: medium;">I think it’s time to just own it. I judge people all the time. I judge them based on what they say, what they do, how their kids behave, their grammar and spelling, and while it’s not my practice to judge people’s clothing, shoes, purses, I will admit to judging those who commit particularly egregious fashion faux pas. I think it’s better to admit it than to pretend I don’t do it. It feels like a relief to get it off my chest.</span></sup><br />
<sup><span style="font-size: medium;">I’d like to take a moment to reflect on the various things for which I judge my fellow man (and woman). I judge people based on what they say, mostly based on the veracity of their statements. When someone tells me a lie or even just makes a statement that is factually inaccurate, I feel like they either think I’m stupid, or they themselves are not that bright. I hate liars and only dislike dull-witted folks slightly less than that. Unless they are really funny. I can tolerate a little stupidity for a good laugh down the line.</span></sup><br />
<sup><span style="font-size: medium;">I definitely judge people based on how their kids behave. If you are raising the Tasmanian Devil and you think it’s cute, you are the exact kind of person I feel an overwhelming desire to slap upside the noggin. Your kids are annoying and you are irresponsible. We don’t want you coming to our house to leave it looking like New Orleans after Katrina hit. Keep your poorly behaved, no-rules-following kids at home, or on a leash. There I said it. Suck on THAT lollipop for a while.</span></sup><br />
<sup><span style="font-size: medium;">Here’s my take on grammar and spelling. Use your spell check, grammar check or get a proofreader! I believe that spelling is innate, and either you have it or you don’t, but that is why they have spell check! Show you care. And honestly, learn the difference between their, there and they’re, your and you’re, where, wear we’re and were, here and hear, and…you get it. If you misuse homophones, you will be judged. I wish I could control it, but I can’t.</span></sup><br />
<sup><span style="font-size: medium;">Now we get to the materialistic portion of our show. Generally, I couldn’t care less if you wear a burlap sack or Prada shoes. BUT…if I see you out wearing something that could be featured on the “People of Wal Mart” website, you will be judged. And that goes for teen girls who dress like cheap hookers in short skirts and “knock me over and __ me” pumps. You’re 15…stop dressing like you belong at Hunt’s Point soliciting a $10 sexual favor!! Actually…not only I will judge you, but I will also make assumptions about your character AND I will judge your parents. My opinion is that there are certain body types that do not lend themselves well to certain styles. If I can count your lumps like the rings of Saturn, your clothes are too tight and you will be judged. Period.</span></sup><br />
<sup><span style="font-size: medium;">You may think I am too judgmental, but frankly, I think we’ve let ourselves go. We’re so concerned with not judging anyone unfairly, we’ve let our standards slip. Thomas Hobbes and John Locke talked about the social contract. The unwritten laws of society dictate that we owe each other certain things. My feeling is that we don’t judge often or harshly enough. So, take off those ridiculous jeans, spell check your next email, and for crying out loud…discipline those little monsters you gave your DNA to!! </span></sup>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-70928521006605476642011-03-18T10:47:00.001-07:002011-04-13T11:10:08.885-07:00They’re Not Heavy, They’re My ChildrenThis week has been filled with tension for me. I have found myself, more than once, in a situation where I was advocating for my children in a setting where I thought their needs were being set aside in favor someone or someTHING else’s interests. What I learned about this is that advocating for my children awakens in me a primal protective instinct more powerful than I ever realized. I also discovered that it’s fairly pointless for me to try to maintain an even tone during these encounters. It’s like watching those nature shows where the rattlesnake bites the hiker for just walking too close, or when the mama bear or lioness bears her teeth and makes a show of aggression to discourage any passerby from even attempting to make contact with her brood. I AM that mama bear, I AM that rattlesnake, and honestly, I’m a little bit proud of it.<br />
Children are our most vulnerable resource. They are so tender and fragile. Not in their bodies, but in their minds. They are impressionable and so easily hurt, manipulated and scarred. It angers me when I see someone, especially someone in whom children are supposed to trust, disregard that fragility. I look at my children like they are Faberge eggs; intricate works of art, extremely delicate and only to be handled with the utmost care and sensitivity. Any crack that develops now due to mishandling will surely split wide open as time wears on. <br />
I marvel at how my children experience the world. Each of them experiences it differently, in his/her own way. My son lives wide open, like riding a rollercoaster, the ups and downs thrilling him at every moment. There is no let down, just the build up to the next wondrous moment. My daughter prefers to ride the merry-go-round, opting for predictability, even pace and security. I provide different tools for them in their quest to experience life as they choose. For my son, it’s varied adventures, independent time and a warm snuggle for him to come back to after exploring the world. For my daughter, it’s being her partner, holding her hand and warm snuggles along the way. I am there as a safety net when she takes those tentative steps away from me.<br />
I’m trying to find a middle ground between the rattlesnake and the pushover. It is a very difficult thing, to find objectivity when it comes to one’s offspring. The love and fierce protective instincts that I have for my babies make it a struggle for me to maintain an even emotional keel sometimes. I guess if I have to choose, I’ll pick fiercely protective. For now, it’s a choice I can live with. Just be careful you don’t walk too close to my nest.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-51397270594640302772011-03-15T17:30:00.001-07:002011-03-15T17:30:58.254-07:00Um, yeah.<p>All day today I thought it was Wednesday. I mean ALL DAY. The delusion continued from daybreak straight through dinner. What is up with that? I want to blame the time change for tinkering with my internal clock, but I fear it’s more than that.</p> <p>It’s been literally a tsunami of bad news since Friday morning. One awful thing after another has left me dazed and somehow my Game of Life spinner is stuck on Wednesday. I’m hoping tomorrow that I don’t think it’s Thursday because frankly, I don’t think I could take another day of confusion. These are the days when it’s really tough to be a mom. Kind of tough to be a wife too. On days like these, I’d prefer to be alone on a warm island with a hammock, a fruity drink spiked with rum (or vodka or gin or tequila or…you get the point) and a tropical breeze washing over me, cleansing me of my angst. I think I just drooled. </p> <p>I’m watching the clock now as it ticks down the minutes until my kids go to bed, my house becomes still and quiet and maybe, just maybe, my brain gets the chance to reboot. I wish I knew where to look for my ctrl+alt+delete buttons. I’ll have to settle for herbal tea, some trashy reality TV and a decent night’s sleep. </p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-90630705289632317472011-03-12T12:12:00.001-08:002011-03-12T12:12:22.261-08:00Suicide is Painless?<p>I got a call yesterday. I can’t stop feeling the shockwaves from the news that was delivered by the somber caller. “John* passed away on Wednesday.” My response, “Oh my God! What happened?” In an instant it flashed before me…he died of a stroke, he was a heavy smoker. He had a heart attack; again…heavy smoker. The answer was more shocking that the original statement, “Lisa, he took his own life.” It was like a record scratched in the background. As if time stopped for a moment. I feel like it hasn’t restarted yet.</p> <p>In an effort to process the news, I spoke to friends who knew him too. None of us could comprehend how someone who seemed so self-assured could do something self-injurious. Maybe he was in debt, maybe he had cancer. Then, just a short time ago, another friend who knew him called to tell me that she knew how he had done it. In my head I had pictured a gun. He was a man’s man. A rugged guy, I had just imagined him with a gun and a bottle of booze. She told me, “He cut his wrists.” I now envision him alone on a Wednesday night (why Wednesday??) finally so overcome with desperation over whatever it was (she heard he was in debt), that he slipped into a warm bath and ended his life.</p> <p>I am filled with an overwhelming feeling of sadness for him. For his family too. He was a larger than life guy with a strong personality. We had some heated arguments over the time we knew each other. I never could have guessed that he would be the kind of person who could be so desperate. His outward appearance was that of someone completely sure of himself, no sense of self-doubt; simply unflappable. If his armor could develop a chink like this, it seems like it could happen to anyone. He was a business man, and business may not be good right now. There are probably people all over the country, the world even, who are in similar dire straits. It’s like the stock market crash of 1929, only it isn’t traders throwing themselves from windows onto Wall St., it’s a guy on “Main St” who just couldn’t take it anymore.</p> <p>I am trying desperately to process this event. To have it make sense. To find something in it that my brain can tolerate. It’s not there. I am enveloped by a sense of sadness that won’t seem to ebb. I feel sad for his family, but most of all I feel sad for a man who seemed so strong, but in the end felt alone, desperate and out of control enough to end his life.</p> <p>*name has been changed to protect identity</p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-16376025961845445872011-03-11T09:06:00.001-08:002011-03-11T09:06:53.507-08:00Tsunamis and other Parenting Challenges<p>This morning I awoke to news of the worst earthquake in Japan’s history, film footage of a tsunami that swept over the island and predictions that tsunamis would be hitting Hawaii and the West Coast of the US. Put differently, I woke up to an Irwin Allen movie (<a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000740/">Irwin Allen IMDB</a>). Overwhelmingly, it seems like the news is pointing more and more toward the conspiracy theorists being right about 2012. Fine, I said it. Put me away.</p> <p>So, fires rage out of control, tsunamis are sweeping across the globe, earthquakes are killing 100’s of thousands of people around the world, the Middle East is in turmoil and oh, yes, there’s Charlie Sheen. How, in the face of all this am I to seriously look at my son and, with no smile on my face, tell him it’s of the utmost importance that he learn how to flawlessly execute “Down by the Station” on his recorder? Seriously.</p> <p>When the world has reached this fever pitch of insanity and mayhem, how can I really care if he knows how to reduce a fraction? Or spell a word properly? Let’s not even start questioning why spelling is even important anymore. Or math for that matter. For crying out loud, technology has advanced to the point where he’d be better off learning how to write code than sentences! It’s arcane.</p> <p>And so, today, with the news pretty much looking like the world is about to end (I won’t go too far into my own religious beliefs on that subject), I sent my son off to school to have his math and spelling skills tested. In retrospect, I think I should have kept him home, taken him someplace fun and called it a day. Tell you what, I am going to be REALLY annoyed with myself if I wake up tomorrow and find out I squandered the last day of civilization this way!</p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-44138898926219500732011-03-04T14:27:00.001-08:002011-03-04T14:27:31.573-08:00Rules of the Road<p>I think there are some people out there who just never learned the rules of the road. I have come up with some simple rules that should make everyone’s time on the road a little more enjoyable and a lot less frustrating. Please to read.</p> <p>1) Sometimes, in the course of driving, you will have occasion to merge into oncoming traffic. Please make sure that you have ample room to complete this maneuver. Suddenly pulling out in front of someone going 55 mph or higher at a speed of 15 mph, is a recipe for an accident. The corollary to this rule is, if you are given the opportunity to merge into oncoming traffic by a magnanimous fellow driver who has waved you on, don’t make them want to beat themselves unconscious on the steering wheel. Follow the rules of the road, among which is the <strong><em>speed limit</em></strong>!! Do not force someone who has allowed you entry into the flow of traffic to drive 25 mph under the speed limit. That is cruel.</p> <p>2) There are times when you are waiting to make a turn and someone let’s you go in front of them. Again, don’t make them wish they were in a Thai prison instead of driving behind you! Possibly the worst offense you can commit is to dilly dally around long enough that you barely make it through a yellow light and leave your good Samaritan at a red light while you finally get your act together and get moving. Some people get really angry when this happens. (like me)</p> <p>3) This one is really basic, we all learned about it in Driver’s Ed, had to demonstrate basic competency to pass the road test, but it seems <em><strong><u>so many</u></strong></em> have forgotten how to do this one simple thing…use your directional signal! Try to remember that the rest of us don’t have ESP (at least not the majority of us) and we don’t know that you’re planning to stop dead in the middle of a block to turn into a driveway or parking lot unless you signal. We don’t know you’re planning to change lanes and jump in front of us unless you signal. They have made a LOT of changes to automobiles since their inception, they have added power steering, they have taken out ashtrays and cigarette lighters, they have added entertainment systems and all kinds of accoutrements, but they leave the directional signal there. There is a reason they have never phased them out, it’s because they are IMPORTANT!</p> <p>4) On the subject of directional signals, when you see a signal from another driver that they are moving over into your lane, this is not your cue to speed up to cut off their attempt to do so. That is rude. Don’t be rude. Nobody likes a rude person.</p> <p>5) Parking Lot Driving: this could be an entirely different set of rules, but I will include it here. Rule #1 if driving in a parking lot: speed limit is 5 mph, maybe 10, no more than that. They call it a PARKING lot not a DRIVING lot for a reason. Rule #2: Be aware that people come and go from parking spaces. When someone is pulling out of a space, that is not your cue to speed up and try to get around them. This causes accidents. Don’t do it. Rule #3: In a crowded parking lot, when people are desperate for parking spaces, be considerate and don’t use your parking spot as a temporary office. Put your stuff in your car, move out and make your calls from home. We don’t have all day to wait for you to organize your purse, make some calls and then pull out! If you see people waiting for spaces be kind. Karma is real. Rule #4: In a parking lot, people who are walking have priority over people in vehicles. This rule is particularly true in inclement or very cold weather. Someone who is exposed to the elements should be allowed to cross in front of you in your warm, dry car and not stand there getting rained on or freezing just because you have 2,000 lbs of motor vehicle to muscle your way past them. It’s courtesy people. We need more of it.</p> <p>6) In general, remember that a car is actually not much more than a deadly weapon with wheels. Use it wisely, safely and with good manners. A little bit of courtesy and common sense will give you a lot of mileage! (pun intended)</p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1251431306510032246.post-66400279758068627262011-03-01T16:08:00.001-08:002011-03-01T17:33:38.753-08:00The Car Wreck<p>Not to be jumping on the “Look at what a freak Charlie Sheen has become” bandwagon, but really…I’ve spent as much time pointing and laughing as I have just wringing my hands. This man is a father to 5 children and he is literally coming apart at the seams.The scariest thing about all of it is that he has two very young children living in his house. No, not the “Goddesses”, I mean his twin boys!! </p> <p>These are two babies whose parents are getting divorced, who have witnessed all manner of dysfunction, ranging from the drug/alcohol abuse of their father, verbal and physical abuse of their mother, and now this entirely new level of insanity their dad is running around peddling as recovery from addiction.There are snowballs in hell that stand a better chance at coming out unscathed than these kids do!</p> <p>The world is watching. This sideshow has become a pass time for a nation. Never mind the fact that the Middle East is melting down, HOLY COW…Charlie Sheen thinks he’s a warlock! It is clear to the average amateur psychologist that this man has snapped. There is some wiring that has shorted out and his speech now sounds like aphasic ramblings we all listened to when Serene Branson had her moment after the Grammy’s. The question is: will anyone actually be able to help him? Is there a doctor in the house who specializes in Adonis DNA?</p> <p>I say, let him self-destruct. He’s bent on killing himself, and maybe it would be like euthanizing a terminally ill pet to just let him go. My only hope is that Brooke Mueller will fight him tooth and nail for custody of those poor babies and he will have less opportunity to damage them and expose them to his issues.</p> Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00609168619089487262noreply@blogger.com0